I paused for a moment, as if absorbing this expected development. The judge would have been correct to bar the insanity defense on either of the grounds Wendy asserted.
But I had a plan B, and it was time to assert it. “Judge, the problem the prosecution has with my client is the same one I have. He’s unresponsive. He can’t talk to me. He can’t help me. He is totally unable to assist me in my defense. And you don’t have to take my word for it. The prosecution is basically making my case for me. Tom Stoller is not fit to stand trial.”
“Wait a second,” Wendy protested.
“Hold on, Counsel,” said the judge. “Mr. Kolarich, you’re talking about fitness now? Your client has had two fitness hearings provided at state expense. He’s been declared fit twice.”
“He won’t-he can’t talk to me, Judge. How is that assisting me in my defense? That’s the very definition of being unfit to stand trial. The prosecution agrees with me. You have no party standing before you that doesn’t think he’s unfit-”
“Counsel, your client won’t talk to the state’s expert. That doesn’t make him unfit. You seem to have had the ability to gain some knowledge from him, not that you volunteered that information to the court. We are not holding a third fitness hearing, and that’s that.”
“Your Honor-”
“We’re done, Counsel. We are done.”
“Then I move for a continuance,” I said, panic rising within me. I’d expected to win on plan B. This was plan C. “You’ve stricken our affirmative defense only eight days before trial. We need time to reassemble and put on a defense.”
The judge didn’t appear moved. “You’ve had months to prepare, Counsel.”
“To prepare an insanity defense, Judge. Not a defense of reasonable doubt. I’ll need a minimum of ninety days-”
“Mr. Kolarich, you knew the risks. You knew the defendant wasn’t cooperating, and you knew your client couldn’t remember the events of the crime. And you knew Ms. Kotowski would file this motion. You didn’t just fall out of a tree.”
“No,” I said. “No, Judge. It’s the prosecution that waited far too long to make this motion. They could have made this motion months ago. They waited until-”
“They were trying to get your client to cooperate, Mr. Kolarich. And he wouldn’t. That’s not the state’s fault. Now, I’ve made my ruling and I will not entertain further argument on it.”
“I understand your ruling on the state’s motion. I’m moving for additional time to prepare in light of that motion. You can’t possibly expect me to be ready on a reasonable-doubt defense in eight days.”
“Counsel,” he said, wagging a finger, “I told you-”
“This is a total ambush, Your Honor. A total am-”
“Counsel, you do not interrupt the court. You do not.”
I had violated the first rule of Judge Nash’s courtroom. And everyone knows that once you get on his bad side, if you don’t make amends, it only gets worse.
“Your motion is denied. We start the trial December first, as planned. The clerk will call the next-”
“Judge, you can’t do this. If you’ll-”
“Mr. Kolarich, that’s twice you’ve interrupted me. Another word and you’ll join your client in lockup.” The judge paused, as if to dare me to do it. I held my stare on him but didn’t say a word. He couldn’t hold me in contempt for staring.
“The clerk… will call… the next case,” he said.
Deep down in the soul of a defense attorney, the thought that visits him in the dead of night is not that he’ll lose a case, or even that an innocent person will go to prison on his watch. What haunts him more than anything is the fear that he’ll make a mistake, a gross miscalculation that will single-handedly be responsible for the loss of his client’s freedom.
That it will be his fault.
I didn’t care much for the insanity defense in this case. In all likelihood, I wasn’t even going to use it. But at this moment I realized, more than ever, that I was counting on it to give me either a win on Tom’s fitness to stand trial or a continuance, either of which would buy me more time, that Judge Nash would give that to me as a consolation prize after striking the defense. And I’d been wrong. The judge had made a mistake here, in my opinion, but when could you ever be sure a judge would rule correctly?
I looked over at my client. Tom was still staring at the floor, seemingly oblivious to what was taking place, his nervous tics in full swing. He caught my eye for one moment before the guard led him out of the courtroom.
“What does this mean?” Aunt Deidre grabbed me by the arms as the court took up the next case.
“We’ll figure this out,” I assured her, moving her toward the exit. “We’ll figure something out.”
Never had I delivered words with such certainty that I didn’t feel. I had outsmarted myself, failing to account for the unpredictability of a judge, and it wouldn’t be me who would feel the weight of that miscalculation.
38
Peter Ramini kept his head down as he navigated the restaurant on the west side. Could be that he’d know some of the regulars, and he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He stayed along the bar, avoiding the diners. The smell of espresso hit his nose and caused him physical pain. It had been more than four years now since his diagnosis, and caffeine was absolutely forbidden. He’d tried the decaf espressos and it was like muddy water. It was worse than forbearance.
He managed to avoid any hellos and made his way back to the kitchen. Inside, Donnie was stirring a pot of tomato sauce and chatting up the staff. Jesus, if this guy wasn’t eating, he was cooking.
Donnie caught Ramini’s eye and met him in the corner. It was private enough, and this conversation wasn’t going to take long.
“Always with your hands in your pockets,” said Donnie, sizing Ramini up. “You’re among friends, Petey.”
Ramini frowned. “Anyway,” he said.
“Anyway, I talked to Paulie, like we said.” Notwithstanding the clanking of pots and pans and the shouts among the chefs, Donnie knew the rule. You could never be too careful. He leaned into Ramini as best he could with his girth.
“Take out the lawyer,” he whispered. “And his lady friend. And don’t come back with more problems.” Donnie cupped his hands over Ramini’s cheeks. “His words, not mine, Petey.”
Ramini nodded. His stomach did a flip. But it was the right call. There was nothing more to discuss. He left the restaurant the same way he came.
39
Randall Manning was seated in the same conference room where his lawyer Bruce McCabe met with Jason Kolarich last week. Manning was dressed in a charcoal suit and a bright yellow tie. He checked his watch. It was almost nine in the morning. He had many things to do in the city today.
Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. He used to love that weekend, the food, the football, most of all the family time. But that was over now. Things were different. Now he dreaded the day.
Jason Kolarich walked into the office a few minutes after nine. He was big. Well over six feet and stocky. An athlete, presumably. And more than that. Edgy. Like he almost didn’t belong in a suit. Like you wouldn’t want to face him in a dark alley, much less a courtroom.
They shook hands. A good, strong grip. Solid on eye contact. But he revealed very little in his face. Certainly no hint of warmth. He probably intimidated a lot of people. But not Manning. That switch had already been flipped. Nothing, at this point, could scare him.
